I must have been very ungrateful, as well as childish, for I never have felt as if it were fortunate that I had a home, and as much money as I wanted.

I did not care anything about being rich, you know--ever." "No, I know you did not.

I was sure you would have been satisfied with a very moderate provision." "Oh, Richard," I cried, clasping my hands together, "if he had left me a little--just a little--just a few hundred dollars, when he had so much, to have kept me from having to work, when I don't know how to work, and am such a child." "Work!" he exclaimed, looking down at me as if I were something so exquisite and so precious, that the very thought was profanation.
"Work! no, Pauline, you shall not have to work." "But what can I do ?" I said, "I have nothing--and you know it; not a shelter; not the money to pay for my breakfast to-morrow morning.

Not a person to whom I have a right to go for help; not a human being who is bound to care for me.

Oh, I don't care what becomes of me; I wish that it were time for me to die." Richard got up, and paced up and down the little platform with an absorbed look.
"It was so strange," I went on, "when he seemed this winter to take a little notice of me, and to want to have me near him.